


nobody knows & nobody sees

by b_o_i



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Barely Legal, Drugged Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Pre-Canon, some asshole takes advantage of a drugged up jesse thts it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:51:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17427125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_o_i/pseuds/b_o_i
Summary: “It’s fine,” the guy says, reaching for his pipe. “Relax. Take another hit.”Jesse takes another hit.





	nobody knows & nobody sees

 

He’s right out of high school, just barely graduated by the skin of his mouth, or teeth, or whatever, and he’s living it the fuck it. He doesn’t know the guy who owns the place, but there’s beer and good music and he’s slinging some way better crystal than anything he and Emilio have ever cooked up.

He thinks the guy is in his twenties, looks young enough but definitely out of college. He leans in real close to offer Jesse some ice and asks how old he is. He assumes the guy must not want anyone too young hanging around, and slurs out “Eighteen. Jus’ graduated.”

“Yeah?” The guy says, “All grown up, huh?”

“Hell yeah, man. ‘M tryna live it up!”

The guy smiles at him all nice, way nicer than anyone at school’s ever smiled at him, even girls he’s dated. It makes Jesse feel warm—or maybe that’s the beer—so he lets the guy help him stumble up the stairs when he says he’s got some way better shit upstairs and he’s got some video games they could play, too. That sounds fun, he thinks vaguely, and wonders if he has Mario Kart or something.

He doesn’t have Mario Kart, but he does have a nice bed. The guy asks if he’s got a girlfriend or anything when he puts his hands on his shoulder to help him lay down. 

“Not right now, really,” he thinks he says.

“Boyfriend?”

He laughs a little, high as a fucking kite, “Nah.”

“Sucks. You’re real cute.”

That makes him feel all warm again—kinda too warm, but that might just be because he’s wearing a long sleeve shirt under his hoodie.

He gasps when he feels cool air on his stomach. There’s warmth there too, curling around his hipbone. 

“Hey” he says, confused. His brain is moving slow, and his body’s moving slower. “Hold up.”

“It’s fine,” the guy says, reaching for his pipe. “Relax. Take another hit.”

Jesse takes another hit. It has him flopping back into the bed, shivering with the way it spreads out all warm, makes him feel good.

“Feels good,” he thinks he says, words slurred.

“I’ll make you feel even better,” he thinks the guys says. He doesn’t really know what he means, but it sounds nicer than it did before.

His world tilts; he feels himself being rolled onto his side. He buries his face in the pillow and breathes; it smells like meth and cigarettes.

“Hey,” he tries to say, something warm and big on the small of his back—his shirt is bunched up as far as it can go. The air is cool on his skin. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Shh,” the guy says, soft but firm; kind of scary. Jesse fries to push himself up but it doesn’t work. “Relax. I’ll make it good.”

Make what good? he tries to ask, but the words don’t leave his mouth, barely even have the strength to form at all. He feels the warmth on his back slide up he’s spine, and then down down down under the hem of his pants, onto the curve of his ass.

“Hey,” he tries to say again, but the warmth stays there and holds him steady. His body feels heavy anyways, like he’s stuck to the sheets. Which are real soft, now that he thinks about it. He rubs at them with one of his hands, because it’s one of the only body parts he can move very well. It feels nice. “Y’r sheets are really soft,” he says.

The guy laughs above him—he wasn’t trying to be funny, but his friends say he’s funny when he’s fucked up. He’s never been this fucked up before, so he guesses he must be even funnier than he usually is. “Glad you like ‘em.”

And then his jeans are sliding down his hips like they’re being swept away, and part of Jesse starts to panic. He doesn’t want his jeans to slide off; he wants them to stay securely on his body. He doesn’t want this guy to touch him like this, even if he did supply some really quality crystal. As quickly as it came, the panic slips away the way his thoughts do when he’s sky high. What was he upset about again? He can’t remember. There’s a light in the corner of the room, a little disco ball looking thing that changes colors. He watches the colors change, and feels the warm hands—because they’re hands, he realizes—move around. The sheets are real soft.

 

The next morning he wakes up to a pounding headache. The sheets are super soft, though, and the room is empty when he lifts his head up. It spins just a bit, but then settles.

His pants are bunched down around his thighs. Embarrassed, even though there’s no one else here to see, he tugs them back up, fumbles with the zipper, pushes himself out of bed.

Downstairs, there’s still a lot of people sleeping on the floor or the couches or whatever. The host—the guy, the guy from last night, is standing in the kitchen. He practically fucking leers at Jesse when he sees him, like he knows something he doesn’t and the thing he knows is downright filthy. Jesse doesn’t like the way he feels under that stare.

“Sleep well?”

“I guess,” he shrugs, looking away. “I gotta go. Gimme another hit.”

The guy scoffs, “Why?”

“Cause I feel like shit and it’s your fault.”

The guy concedes, and leans over the counter to hold the pipe to Jesse’s lips. Jesse would tell him he can do it his goddamn self, but he mostly just wants to take the hit and leave.

He takes the hit and leaves. It take him a sec to get his bearings when he steps outside. Everything’s so bright and clean, and he feels dirty. He doesn’t remember everything, but what he does remember makes his stomach turn. 

He’s halfway down the driveway when he realizes he didn’t drive here himself. He can’t remember who did, but he knows they’re not here anymore. He doesn’t really know where he is, but it looks kinda familiar. He doesn’t know who to call. He doesn’t know if he even wants to call anyone. He must look like shit; he sure feels like it.

He’s kinda hungry, and his mouth is dry, but mostly he just wants. He feels dirty. He feels like, violated or whatever. The guy’s warm hands on his back and his waist and the way he fucking laughed at him.

Whatever. Whatever. He’ll just take a shower and take another hit of whatever he has under the sink and just forget about it. He just won’t party at that asshole’s place again. It doesn’t matter.

 

**Author's Note:**

> shrug emoji


End file.
